Aftershock & Others

by F. Paul Wilson

  “I…I…” I’m flabbergasted. This man is on top of everything. Truly he knows how to run a business. “I think that’s incredible.”

  “Just give us your name and address and we’ll get that replacement to you immediately!”

  “It’s Michael Moulton.” I give her the address.

  “Ooh! Hackensack. That’s not far from here!”

  “Just over the GW Bridge.”

  “Well, then! You should have your replacement very soon!”

  “Good.”

  Her terminal perkiness is beginning to get to me. I’m hurrying to hang up when she says, “Oh, and one more thing. Mr. Nickleby said to tell you not to do anything with the audiocassette. Just close it up in the box it came in and wait for the replacement tape. The messenger will take it in exchange for the videotape.”

  “Fine. Good—”

  “Remember that now—close the audiotape in the holder and wait. Okay?”

  “Right. Cool. Good-bye.”

  I hang up thinking, Whatever she’s taking, I want some.

  Being a good boy, I snap the video box cover closed and am about to place it on the end table by the door when curiosity tickles me and I start to wonder what’s on this tape. Is it maybe from Dennis Nickleby’s private collection? A bootleg jazz or rock tape? Or better yet, some dictation that might give away one or two investment secrets not on the videotape?

  I know right then there’s no way I’m not going to listen to this tape, so why delay? I pop it into my cassette deck and hit PLAY.

  Nothing. I crank up the volume—some static, some hiss, and nothing else. I fast forward and still nothing. I’m about to hit STOP when I hear some high-pitched gibberish. I rewind a little and replay at regular speed.

  Finally this voice comes on. Even with the volume way up I can barely hear it. I press my ear to the speaker. Whoever it is is whispering.

  “The only word you need to know: COPPE.”

  And that’s it. I fast forward all the way to the end and nothing. I go back and listen to that one sentence again. “The only word you need to know: COPPE.”

  Got to be a garble. Somebody erased the tape and the heads missed a spot.

  Oh, well.

  Disappointed, I rewind it, pop it out, and close it up in the video box.

  So here I am, not an hour later, fixing a sandwich and watching the stock quotes on CNBC when there’s a knock on my apartment door. I check through the peephole and almost choke.

  Dennis Nickleby himself!

  I fumble the door open and he steps inside.

  “Mr. Nickleby!”

  “Do you have it?”

  He’s sweating and puffing like he sprinted the ten flights to my floor instead of taking the elevator. His eyes are darting everywhere so fast they seem to be moving in opposite directions—like a chameleon’s. Finally they come to rest on the end table.

  “There! That’s it!”

  He lunges for the video box, pops it open, snatches the cassette from inside.

  “You didn’t listen to it, did you?”

  Something in his eyes and voice tell me to play this one close to the vest. But I don’t want to lie to Dennis Nickleby.

  “Should I have? I will if you want me to.”

  “No-no,” he says quickly. “That won’t be necessary.” He hands me an identical video box. “Here’s the replacement. Terribly sorry for the mix-up.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Some mix-up. How’d that ever happen?”

  “Someone playing games.” His eyes go subzero for an instant. “But no harm done.”

  “You want to sit down? I was just making lunch—”

  “Thank you, no. I’d love to but my schedule won’t permit it. Maybe some other time.” He extends his hand. “Once again, sorry for the inconvenience. Enjoy the tape.”

  And then he’s out the door and gone. I stand there staring at the spot where he stood. Dennis Nickleby himself came by to replace the tape. Personally. Wow. And then it occurs to me: Check the new box.

  I pop it open. Yes sir. There’s the Three Months to Financial Independence videotape. At last.

  But what’s the story with that audio cassette? He seemed awful anxious to get it back. And what for? It was totally blank except for that one sentence—The only word you need to know: COPPE. What’s that all about?

  I’d like to look it up in the dictionary, but who knows how to spell something so weird sounding. And besides, I don’t have a dictionary. Maybe I’ll try later at the local library—once I find out where the local library is. Right now I’ve got to transfer some money to my checking account so I can pay my Visa bill when the five-hundred-buck charge to Nickleby, Inc., shows up on this month’s statement.

  I call Gary, my discount broker, to sell some stock. I’ve been in Castle Petrol for a while and it’s doing squat. Now’s as good a time as any to get out. I tell Gary to dump all 200 shares. Then it occurs to me that Gary’s a pretty smart guy. Even finished college.

  “Hey, Gary. You ever hear of COPPE?”

  “Can’t say as I have. But if it exists, I can find it for you. You interested?”

  “Yeah. I’m very interested.”

  “You got it.”

  Yeah, well, I don’t get it. All right, maybe I do get it, but it’s not what I’m expecting, and not till two days later.

  Meantime I stay busy with Dennis Nickleby’s videotape. Got to say, it’s kind of disappointing. Nothing I haven’t heard elsewhere. Strange…after seeing his infomercial, I was sure this was going to be just the thing for me.

  Then I open an envelope from the brokerage. Inside I find the expected sell confirm for the two hundred shares of Castle Petrol at 10.25, but with it is a buy confirm for two thousand shares of something called Thai Cord, Inc.

  What the hell is Thai Cord? Gary took the money from Castle Petrol and put it in a stock I’ve never heard of! I’m baffled. He’s never done anything like that. Must be a mistake. I call him.

  “Hey, dude,” he says as soon as he comes on the line. “Who’s your source?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Thai Cord. It’s up to five this morning. Boy, you timed that one perfectly.”

  “Five?” I swallow. I was ready to take his head off, now I learn I’ve made eight thousand in two days. “Gary…why did you put me into Thai Cord?”

  “Why? Because you asked me to. You said you were very interested in it. I’d never heard of it, but I looked it up and bought it for you.” He sounds genuinely puzzled. “Wasn’t that why you called the other day? To sell Castle and buy Thai? Hey, whatever, man—you made a killing.”

  “I know I made a killing, Gary, and no one’s gladder than me, but—”

  “You want to stay with it?”

  “I just want to get something straight: Yesterday I asked you if you’d ever heard of COPPE.”

  “No way, pal. I know ParkerGen. NASDAQ—good high-tech, speculative stock. You said Thai Cord.”

  I’m getting annoyed now. “COPPE, Gary. COPPE!”

  “I can hear you, Mike. ParkerGen, ParkerGen. Are you all right?”

  At this moment I’m not so sure. Suddenly I’m chilled, and there’s this crawly feeling on the nape of my neck. I say one thing—The only word you need to know—and Gary hears another.

  “Mike? You still there?”

  “Yeah. Still here.”

  My mind’s racing. What the hell’s going on?

  “What do you want me to do? Sell the Thai and buy ParkerGen? Is that it?”

  I make a snap decision. Something weird’s going down and I want to check it out. And what the hell, it’s all found money.

  “Yeah. Put it all into ParkerGen.”

  “Okay. It’s running three and an eighth today. I’ll grab you three thousand.”

  “Great.”

  I get off the phone and start to pace my apartment. I’m wired. I’ve got this crazy idea cooking in my brain…

  …the only word you need to know: COPPE
.

  What if…?

  Nah. It’s too crazy. But if it’s true, there’s got to be a way to check it out.

  And then I have it. The ponies. They’re running at the Meadowlands today. I’ll invest a few hours in research. If I hurry I can make the first race.

  I know it’s completely nuts, but I’ve got to know…

  I just make it. I rush to the ten-dollar window and say, “COPPE in the first.”

  The teller doesn’t even glance up; he takes my ten, punches a few buttons, and out pops my ticket. I grab it and look at it: I’ve bet on some nag named Yesterday’s Gone.

  I don’t bother going to the grandstand. I stand under one of the monitors. I see the odds on Yesterday’s Gone are three to one. The trotters are lined up, ready to go.

  “And they’re off!”

  I watch with a couple of other guys in polo shirts and polyester pants who’re standing around. I’m not too terribly surprised when Yesterday’s Gone crosses the finish line first. I’ve now got thirty bucks where I had ten a few minutes ago, but I’ve also got that crawly feeling at the back of my neck again.

  This has gone from crazy to creepy.

  With the help of the Daily Double and the Trifecta, by the time I leave the track I’ve parlayed my original ten bucks into sixty-two hundred. I could have made more but I’m getting nervous. I don’t want to attract too much attention.

  As I’m driving away I can barely keep from flooring the gas pedal. I’m wired—positively giddy. It’s like some sort of drug. I feel like king of the world. I’ve got to keep going. But how? Where?

  I pass a billboard telling me about “5 TIMES MORE DICE ACTION!” at Caesar’s in Atlantic City.

  My question has been answered.

  I pick Caesar’s because of the billboard. I’ve never been much for omens but I’m into them now. Big time.

  I’m also trying to figure out what else I’m into with this weird word. The only word you need to know…

  All you need to know to win. That has to be it: The word makes you a winner. If I say it whenever I’m about to take a chance—on a horse or a stock, at least—I’m a guaranteed winner.

  This has got to be why Dennis Nickleby’s such a success. He knows the word. That’s why he was so anxious to get it back—he doesn’t want anybody else to know it. Wants to keep it all to himself.

  Bastard.

  And then I think, no, not a bastard. I’ve got to ask myself if I’m about to share the word with anybody else. The answer is a very definite en-oh. I get the feeling I’ve just joined a very exclusive club. Only thing is, the other members don’t know I’ve joined.

  I also get the feeling there’s no such thing as a game of chance for me anymore.

  Cool.

  The escalator deposits me on the casino floor. All the way down the Parkway I’ve been trying to decide what to try first—blackjack, poker, roulette, craps—what? But soon as I come within sight of the casino, I know. Flashing lights dead ahead:

  PROGRESSIVE SLOTS! $802,672!!!

  The prize total keeps rising as players keep plunking their coins into the gangs of one-armed bandits.

  I wind through the crowds and the smoke and the noise toward the progressive slots section. Along the way I stop at a change cart and hand the mini-togaed blonde a five.

  “Dollars,” I say, “even though I’m going to need just one to win.”

  “Right on,” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

  She will. I take my Susan B. Anthonys and say, “You’ll see.”

  I reach the progressive section and hunt up a machine. It isn’t easy. Everybody here is at least a hundred years old and they’d probably give up one of their grandkids before they let somebody use their damn machine. Finally I see a hunched old blue-hair run out of money and leave her machine. I dart in, drop a coin in the slot, then I notice the machine takes up to three. I gather if I’m going to win the full amount I’d better drop two more. I do. I grab the handle…and hesitate. This is going to get me a lot of attention. Do I want that? I mean, I’m a private kind of guy. Then I look up at the $800,000-and-growing jackpot and know I want that.

  Screw the publicity.

  I whisper, “COPPE,” and yank the handle.

  I close my eyes as the wheels spin; I hear them begin to stop: First window—choonk! Second window—choonk! Third window—choonk! A bell starts ringing! Coins start dropping into the tray! I did it!

  Abruptly the bell and the coins stop. I open my eyes. There’s no envious crowd around me, no flashing cameras. Nobody’s even looking my way. I glance down at the tray. Six dollars. I check out the windows. Two cherries and an orange. The red LED reads, “Pays 6.”

  I’m baffled. Where’s my $800,000 jackpot? The crawling feeling that used to be on my neck is now in the pit of my stomach. What happened? Did I blow it? Is the word wearing out?

  I grab three coins from the tray and shove them in. I say, “COPPE,” again, louder this time, and pull that handle.

  Choonk! Choonk! Choonk!

  Nothing this time. Nothing!

  I’m getting scared now. The power is fading fast. Three more coins, I damn near shout, “COPPE!” as I pull the goddamn handle. Choonk! Choonk! Choonk!

  Nothing! Zip! Bupkis!

  I slam my hand against the machine. “Damn, you! What’s wrong?”

  “Easy, fella,” says the old dude next to me. “That won’t help. Maybe you should take a break.”

  I walk away without looking at him. I’m devastated. What if I only had a few days with this word and now my time is up? I wasted it at the track when I could have been buying and shorting stocks on margin. The smoke, the crowds, the incessant chatter and mechanical noise of the casino is driving me to panic. I have to get out of here. I’m just about to break into a run when it hits me.

  The word…what if it only works on people? Slot machines can’t hear…

  I calm myself. Okay. Let’s be logical here. What’s the best way to test the word in a casino?

  Cards? Nah. Too many possible outcomes, too many other players to muddy the waters.

  Craps? Again, too many ways to win or lose.

  What’s a game with high odds and a very definite winner?

  I scan the floor, searching…and then I see it.

  Roulette.

  But how can I use the word at a roulette table?

  I hunt around for a table with an empty seat. I spot one between this middle-aged nerd who’s got to be an optometrist, and a mousy, thirtyish redhead who looks like one of his patients. Suddenly I know what I’m going to do.

  I pull a hundred-dollar bill from my Meadowlands roll and grip it between my thumb and index finger. Then I twist up both my hands into deformed knots.

  As I sit down I say to the redhead, “Could I trouble you to place my bets for me?”

  She glances at my face through her Coke-bottle lenses, then at my twisted hands. Her eyes dart back to my face. She gives me a half-hearted smile.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “I’ll split my winnings with you.” If I win.

  “That’s okay. Really.”

  I make a show of difficulty dropping the hundred-dollar bill from my fingers, then I push it across the table.

  “Tens, please.”

  A stack of ten chips is shoved in front of me.

  “All bets down,” the croupier says.

  “Put one on COPPE, please,” I tell the redhead, and hold my breath.

  I glance around but no one seems to hear anything strange. Red takes a chip off the top of my pile and drops it on 33.

  I’m sweating bullets now. My bladder wants to find a men’s room. This has got to work. I’ve got to know if the word still has power. I want to close my eyes but I don’t dare. I’ve got to see this.

  The ball circles counter to the wheel, loses speed, slips toward the middle, hits rough terrain, bounces chaotically about, then clatters into a numbered slot.

  “Thirty-three,” d
rones the croupier.

  The redhead squeals and claps her hands. “You won! Your first bet and you won!”

  I’m drenched. I’m weak. My voice is hoarse when I say, “You must be my good luck charm. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Truth is, it could be luck. A cruel twist of fate. I tell Red to move it all over to “COPPE.”

  She looks shocked. “All of it? You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She pushes the stack over to the 17 box.

  Another spin. “Seventeen,” the croupier says.

  Now I close my eyes. I’ve got it. The word’s got the power and I’ve got the word. The only word you need to know. I want to pump a fist into the air and scream “YES!” but I restrain myself. I am disabled, after all.

  “Ohmigod!” Red is whispering. “That’s…that’s…!”

  “A lot of money,” I say. “And half of it’s yours.”

  Her blue eyes fairly bulge against the near sides of her lenses. “What? Oh, no! I couldn’t!”

  “And I couldn’t play without your help. I said I’d split with you and I meant it.”

  She has her hand over her mouth. Her words are muffled through her fingers. “Oh, thank you. You don’t know—”

  “All bets down,” says the croupier.

  No more letting it ride. My winnings far exceed the table limit. I notice that the pit boss has materialized and is standing next to the croupier. He’s watching me and eyeing the megalopolis skyline of chips stacked in front of me. Hitting the winning number two times in a row—it happens in roulette, but not too damn often.

  “Put five hundred on sixteen,” I tell Red.

  She does, and 22 comes up. Next I tell her five hundred on nine. Twelve comes up.

  The pit boss drifts away.

  “Don’t worry,” Red says with a reassuring pat on my arm. “You’re still way ahead.”

  “Do I look worried?”

  I tell her to put another five hundred on “COPPE.” She puts the chips on 19.

  A minute later the croupier calls, “Nineteen.” Red squeals again. I lean back as the croupier starts stacking my winnings.